


Jack

by GotTea



Series: Family Series [3]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Family Drama, Iris - Freeform, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11810043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, taking a tiny moment to bestow a gentle, loving kiss on her lips, to brush his fingers slowly, sweetly over her cheek, before pulling away to snag the jeans slung over the small chair nestled in the corner of her bedroom...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Iris is back again...  
> Thanks to Judith for the speedy beta. Hugs. :) xx

**Jack**

* * *

**Part One**

* * *

Early morning winter light is beautiful, thinks Grace, watching the way it plays over Boyd’s face as the breeze rustles the curtains. It’s been exceptionally mild so far, as the year has headed inexorably for its end, but even so, it won’t be long now before the mornings are too cold for her to leave the window open, before the slight chill of the fading month of November fully departs and the true bite of winter really begins to set in.

She’s not looking forward to the change. Adores the colours that come with summer’s end, and has thoroughly enjoyed the long-lasting autumn. She’s dreading the cold, but then again, there will be longer hours of darkness where the world closes in, creating a feeling of deep, peaceful intimacy. Dark, quiet evenings at home, no outside chores to attend to, more time themselves… at least, that’s what she is wishfully telling herself.

All of that is irrelevant right now though, when the man in her life is supine beneath her and grinning in utter bliss as she runs one hand over his stomach, nails deliberately scratching lightly over the highly sensitive skin there as the fingers of her other hand curl around his cock, grip snug as she works him, creating a very deliberate friction that has him arching his back, thrusting up into her hand.

“Grace,” he growls, and it sends a delicious, erotic shiver down her spine.

“Yes?” she enquires, utterly mischievous. “What do you want, Peter? Tell me…”

He can’t, and she knows it. Knows that she knows, and that she enjoys it. Instead he moves, lightning fast as he grabs her, reversing their positions and pressing her into the mattress, his weight a hot and heavy presence on top of her.

She likes that, and he knows it. But damn, now he’s got the upper hand. Does she care, though…?

Grace licks her lips, closes her eyes as he reaches for her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple, light and teasing. It feels like her skin is alive as his hands greedily seek and find, looking for all the things that fascinate him so, that he knows will please her, arouse her.

Downstairs the phone rings for the second time that morning, but she overlooks it again, scowling as he pauses for a second, thieving away the blissful sensation she wants so much.

“Ignore it,” she orders, firmly, and he does, reapplying himself to his explorations with an intensity that has her gasping, and within moments she’s the one that’s arching her back, pressing the curves of her flesh into his palm and hissing out his name as he massages greedily, leaning down to take her nipple between his lips. It’s exquisite, the sensation, but it’s still not enough and she drags him up for a kiss that is deep and hard and hot, a reflection of everything she wants from him in this heady, heated morning tumble. His tongue seeks hers, and she willingly meets it, breaking away to quickly nip his throat, his collar bone, utterly determined to be an equal partner in this, to remind him that she can absolutely give as good as she gets.

“Jesus, Grace,” he moans, and she grins at him, unreservedly wicked. He sees it, and then she sees the flash in his eyes, has just enough time to register that it’s there before he’s kissing her again, using his body to push her into the mattress as his lips claim hers, the exchange becoming more and more impassioned, more desperate.

Clutching his shoulders, revelling in the power and the width and the muscle she finds there, Grace pulls him closer, clings to him, and tries to force as much contact between their bodies as she can, desperate for the skin to skin sensation. His hand is on her waist, thumb dragging across the skin over ridge of her hip before it slips lower, fingers sliding between her legs. He doesn’t tease, instead sets about creating a multitude of intense sensations. There is urgency in his actions, and she likes that, too. This isn’t about making long slow love with the moonlight streaming in through the curtains from the dark night sky. This is about the frantic, blazing spike of passion rising out of an affectionate, spontaneous moment of laughter and amusement during a quiet Saturday morning’s intimate, lazy breakfast in bed after a long and busy week.

It’s too much, but it’s not enough. Not at all. She wants more, so much more.

Looping her leg over his hip is all it takes to tell him that, and then he’s moving, pushing into her and her body is shuddering beneath his, welcoming his slow, steady invasion.

“Good?” he growls, voice rough and low, uneven with the overwhelming nature of it all, and all she can do is nod and moan, desperate for more. He doesn’t make her wait, begins to thrust slowly and steadily, the angle and depth a sublime combination that makes her breathing race and her heart pound heavily in her chest.

Thanking her lucky stars she stayed with the yoga class her consultant recommended as part of her recovery, Grace wraps her legs high around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer. The look she receives in response is worth all the hours of sweating and stretching and feeling like an old woman in a class of young mums, struggling to build up strength and flexibility. Boyd’s voice stays rough and gravelly as he drips erotic promises into her ear, the combination of it all making her swear softly and beg him to keep going.

It’s a pointless exercise, because she’s sure nothing could stop him. Until the doorbell sounds, a loud and imperious summons that reverberates through the house thanks to the previous occupant having had it custom-made to counteract his partial deafness. Somehow Grace has never got round to getting that fixed, and now she curses herself for it as Boyd’s concentration falters, as she herself is violently pulled out of the moment, the raw, building edge of release evaporating as her attention is yanked elsewhere.

This time it is Boyd’s turn to growl, “Ignore it,” though neither of them can, not when the bell immediately tolls again. Not when whoever is downstairs sets up a deep, hammering knock on her front door as well, seemingly determined to get her attention.

Their rhythm is shattered and Grace wants to cry, to scream in angry frustration that her chance, their chance, has been ruined. Boyd’s face is like thunder as he pulls away from her, and Grace whimpers at the sudden loss of contact, feeling their separation keenly. His expression fills with regret, a tenderness he rarely shows anyone but her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, taking a tiny moment to bestow a gentle, loving kiss on her lips, to brush his fingers slowly, sweetly over her cheek, before pulling away to snag the jeans slung over the small chair nestled in the corner of her bedroom. He steps into them quickly, zipping them up with a grunt and a pained grimace, and then he’s storming through the door and thudding down the stairs as the uninvited guest presses the doorbell and begins to knock once again.

Lying on her back, hands clenched into the bedsheets in anger, Grace breathes, tries to school her temper. She’s not normally volatile, but this…

She momentarily wonders whether to wait for him, but then realises the keys are in her handbag, which is beside the chair Boyd plucked his jeans from. Sitting up, she slips out of bed and pulls on a light, silky robe that’s a shade of deep purple he finds fascinating. Not quite as fascinating, however, as slowly peeling back the fabric from her skin, as though unwrapping a treasured gift at Christmas. Another imperious peel of the bell banishes the thought from her mind before it can go any further though, as, keys in hand, she reaches the landing and hears Boyd growling to himself on the ground floor. There’s a metallic crackle as she reaches the stairs, the sound of a key in a lock and she suddenly remembers him abandoning his own keys in the kitchen when they arrived home late last night.

The door creaks open, the sound echoing in the hallway as Grace turns the corner on the stairs, and then she hears Boyd’s voice, brusque and irritable.

“What?” he demands, and she could never chastise him for his tone, not when she’s still keenly feeling the loss and frustration every bit as much as she sure he is, too.

There’s a tiny pause, silence filling the gap, and then an angry voice responds with, “Who the fuck are you?”

She knows that voice. Knows it very well, and yet Grace still flinches as she hears it. Quickening her pace, she reaches the bottom of the stairs in seconds and finds exactly what she’s been dreading for weeks now. Almost exactly three months, in fact.

Boyd is standing in the doorway, utterly dishevelled, wearing nothing but the pair of hastily donned jeans and still breathing heavily as he rests one hand of the open door, surveying the man standing outside on the step.

The other man, who, if Grace’s maths are correct, is about twelve years older than Boyd, is clearly bristling. Shorter by a couple of inches, wiry rather than muscular, and fully clothed, he looks astonished, speechless, and livid all at once.

Boyd’s brusque, “What’s it to you?” is the wrong thing to say, Grace realises as soon as the words leave his lips. The newcomer, she knows, is rarely a quick-tempered man, but he has his sore spots, and as the man’s gaze falls briefly on her and takes in her equally dishevelled state, Grace knows that Boyd has just hit one of them square on.

The man doesn’t respond, at least not verbally. He simply lunges, body and fist lurching forward and it’s only Boyd’s incredibly quick reflexes that prevent the blow from landing full force as he twists to the side, arm flying up in self-defence to knock the punch away. The angry fist strikes, not to his face with full impact as intended, but rather to his shoulder, and with, Grace notices with interest, barely a twitch on her lover’s part.

Boyd keeps hold of the striking limb, pivoting and twisting, and she can see exactly what he’s intending on doing, but it’s then that his feet slip on the rug that is a recent addition to the floor just inside the door. The two men flail, knocked off balance, as the older makes another bid to strike out, and somehow, as she steps closer, still moving, and opens her mouth to call them to order, the chaos of it all turns against her and her best intentions in the tiny space that is her hallway.

The wild, reactive blow meant for Boyd misses as the two men lurch and stumble, and instead strikes her in the chest, sending her crashing backwards into the wall and then to the floor as her legs tangle and slide from under her. Stunned by the impact of the fall, and thoroughly winded from the blow, Grace gasps and rolls onto her side, clutching her chest where a ball of fiery pain is blooming, seemingly cutting off her ability to breathe.

She hears Boyd roar in fury, sees him plant his feet firmly and then, before he knows it, the second man is being jammed unceremoniously and rather forcefully face first into the wall, his arm neatly pinned up behind his back. It doesn’t stop him from lashing out still, driving the other elbow back towards Boyd stomach, and that blow does land, though much of its power seems to be lost in the small space available as Boyd crowds against him, using his superior height and weight to force the man into the submission. Within moments he’s got both arms up behind the man’s back, one in a textbook hold, the other in a rather less pleasant fashion as he stakes his authority, voice angry, but eerily calm.

“I’m arresting you on suspicion of assault occasioning actual bodily harm. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. The reason for this arrest is to prevent you from causing injury to another person or yourself, to allow an investigation to take place regarding this offence, and so that you can be taken to a police station and interviewed regarding this matter. _Do_ _you_ _understand_?”

He control doesn’t slip until he gets the end of his spiel, the emphasis on the very last words pronounced as the male fights his grip and Boyd’s temper begins to fray. He doesn’t shout though, instead he simply alters his grip, adding just a little bit more pressure. The effect is instantaneous, and the man pinned against the wall bellows in pain, his movements stilling.

“Don’t fight me,” Boyd warns, checking his stance, his grip.

“Fuck off,” is the snarled reply.

Still on the floor, fighting for equilibrium, Grace sees the way Boyd effortlessly ignores the other man, years of response work having left him immune to the obstinate ways and words of angry suspects. Instead he looks down at her, his expression filled with concern as he studies her, and his eyes clearly showing how torn he is between keeping the man restrained, and wanting to rush to her aid.

Still unable to speak, she shakes her head at him, indicates she’s all right. And she will be, she knows. The blow was nasty, the fall, too, and she’ll be bruised in several places later, but nothing major is broken, and though she can’t quite manage to get herself to her feet again, she can and does roll into a sitting position before propping herself up against the nearest wall, gazing over at the scene playing out before her as she rubs a hand across her aching ribs.

“Are you sure?” he asks, the rest of his question implicit, and again she gives a non-verbal answer, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to reassure him.

Boyd gazes at her for a long time, seemingly working hard to convince himself she really is in no imminent danger, and she holds that gaze, keeping her expression steady. There’s no doubt he’s more than a little stunned by the sudden turn of events – they both are – but there are still matters to be dealt with.

Grace opens her mouth, tries to speak, but all she manages to produce is a breathy squeak. She sees, immediately, the way the anger floods back into Boyd, but as he turns back to the man in his custody, he remains calm, somehow not letting his fury take control of him, and for that Grace is incredibly grateful. And just a touch proud of him.

“Do you understand why you’ve been arrested?” he asks, a brisk, business-like calm taking over.

“Yes,” is the response he gets, though it is ground out through clenched teeth. “This is ridiculous. Let me go!”

“Absolutely not,” replies Boyd absently, glancing around. “Grace, have you got a clock about? My watch is upstairs…”

She points to the wall behind him, sees him crane his neck.

“Ten twenty-three,” he mutters to himself, undoubtedly making a mental note. He turns his attention back to the man still squashed up against the wall. “Do you understand the caution, or do you need me to explain it to you?”

“I’m not stupid!” is the growled reply. “And why do you need to know the time?”

“Time of arrest, mate,” replies Boyd, easily. “It’s important. They’ll want to know when you get to the police station.”

If it wasn’t all so surreal, Grace would laugh. She’s seen Boyd arrest enough people to know how it works, but she’s always surprised – and impressed – by his ability to bring people back down from the heights of towering rage. True, his captive isn’t exactly happy, but he’s no longer lashing out and fighting.

An idle, remote part of her brain is busy analysing the way Boyd is so confident in his motions, his actions, despite his barely clothed state. A pair of jeans hastily yanked on, that’s it, and he’s still effortless and so sure of himself in the way he’s handling the situation.

Completely unfazed.

It’s… very interesting, and if she wasn’t still thoroughly winded she would be highly preoccupied by it, but she is and there are still other, far more pressing, matters at hand.

Like the identity of the man her partner has just arrested.

She drags in a tiny morsel of a wheezing breath and opens her mouth to speak, hoping to diffuse some of the tension, bring the situation further under control. All that emerges though is a pathetic little squeak.

Boyd’s head snaps around, his eyes falling on her again as he takes in the way she’s still clutching at her chest, still struggling to recover.

“Grace?” the worry in his expression is clear, even as he keeps a steady hold.

She shakes her head, holds his gaze. It’s the best she can do, but he seems to understand. He looks agonised, she thinks, seeing it in his eyes for a fleeting second. Desperate to rush to her aid, but stuck with the burden in his hands.

“Who the hell are you?” The repeat question is angry, aggressive, and a sudden, renewed upward spike in the atmosphere.

Boyd appears unperturbed. Answers with a calm, “Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd.” It seems to enrage his captive, who squirms in his grip until he can twist and glower at Grace, the fury in his blue eyes suddenly reigniting.

“Detective Superintendent? Jesus! Another bloody police officer, Grace? Are you _completely_ fucking insane?”

“Watch your mouth, young man!”

They all freeze, turn around slowly. Standing in the doorway, Iris is surveying the scene with pursed lips and a curious expression on her face. She looks at Grace, appraising the dishevelled appearance of her daughter; the messy hair, flushed skin, disarrayed gown, wheezy breath.

She looks at Boyd, takes in his rumpled jeans, his spiky, untidy hair, and his conspicuous lack of other clothing, her eyes clearly lingering on his bare torso and shoulders.

Grace coughs weakly and opens her mouth to speak, but again no sound issues and Iris raises her eyebrows, clearly wondering what has happened.

“You didn’t answer your phone, girl,” she says, answering Grace’s unasked question. “Now I can guess why. I’m assuming you’ve forgotten about our trip to Covent Garden?”

Grace winces. Nods, because it’s the only thing she can do.

“That’s why I’m here.” Iris looks at the men present, puts an imperious hand on her hip. “Peter, why have you got Jack in an arm lock?”

“He’s fucking arrested me,” snarls the other man.

“I see.” Her mother is remarkably calm, thinks Grace, whose own head is still reeling. “And did you deserve it, boy?”

“Jack?” asks Boyd, clearly bewildered.

“Jack Foley,” confirms Iris with a nod. “My eldest son.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

* * *

If the previous scene was surreal, thinks Grace, as she watches the pause that seems to wash over all three people standing in her hallway as they stare at each other, each digesting new information, then this is downright unreal.

“You know him?” snarls Jack, jerking his head at Boyd as he glares at his mother.

Iris scoffs at him. “Of course I do.”

Boyd, Grace observes, looks like he has no idea what to do. Like he’s caught between wanting to let go of Jack with the speed of someone who has just inadvertently picked up a hot potato, and not wanting to release him at all because the threat level from the other man is still unknown.

And her mother, quick as she is, is still taking in the scene; her scantily dressed daughter sitting on the floor and leaning heavily against the wall, the even more scantily dressed man holding her enraged son in a firmly restraining grip, and the tense, frosty atmosphere surrounding it all.

It’d all be so much easier, Grace thinks irritably, if she could just bloody speak.

“Why can’t you get your words out, my dear?” asks Iris, pushing the front door closed behind her before walking over to Grace and staring down at her.

“Ask him,” says Boyd tersely, jerking his head at the man still pushed face first against the wall.

“I have no idea,” snaps Jack, fighting back with a renewed strength. Boyd growls and twists his arm just a fraction further, causing the other man to yelp in pain and cease him movements immediately.

“Stop that, both of you,” Iris barks, glaring. “Peter, let him go. Jack, I don’t know what you’ve done, but for God’s sake, behave yourself.”

“He punched Grace,” says Boyd, finally relinquishing his grip and taking a step back out of range as he does so. Grace doesn’t fail to notice the way he keeps his stance wide and balanced, nor the way his direction of travel as he moves puts him firmly between her and the perceived threat that is her brother.

“What?” It’s a simultaneous question, one of outrage from Iris, and disbelief from Jack.

“It’s true,” Boyd tells them, as Grace nods behind him.

“I didn’t,” protests Jack. “I would never.”

Boyd shakes his head. “It was accidental. You were trying to hit me, and you missed.”

“Why,” demands Iris, eyes flinty, “were you trying to hit Peter?”

There’s silence in the hallway, broken only by the sound of the ticking clock. Grace watches her brother, sees the way he is looking down and away, almost squirming, and wonders what’s really going on. Jack has never acted like this. True he almost came to blows with John a few times, but that was years back. He has a temper when provoked – always has done – but not to this extent. And he doesn’t provoke easily at all.

“Right,” says Iris, decisively. “Peter, relax. Let’s move this to the kitchen, get a cup of tea, and sort things out.”

So typical of her mother, thinks Grace. Just walking in and taking the reins. She shifts her eyes to Boyd, watches as he takes another step away from her brother, eyes wary. Iris sees it, too, and Grace is incredibly grateful when she simply points to the kitchen doorway and orders Jack through, following closely as he goes.

Boyd visibly relaxes, turning quickly to kneel beside her, reaching out to touch her, check her over. Grace smiles, shakes her head to indicate it isn’t necessary, but he won’t be easily soothed, she knows. If the last few months have taught her anything it’s that he’s only grown more protective of her, not less.

Gentle hands tug at the tie around her waist, move her gown aside, reveal an angry red mark in the centre of her chest and she hears the livid growl low down in the back of Boyd’s throat as he assesses the damage.

“That’s going to bruise later,” he sighs, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

It’s so typical of him, she thinks. Believing that he should have done more, been quicker, prevented this from happening. Still smiling softly at him, she shakes her head again, cupping his cheek with a hand and softly urging him to see that she’s not attributing him any blame at all.

He nods, slowly accepting it, and then asks, “Where else are you hurt?” She touches her shoulder and hip, where she hit the wall and floor on the way down, and then holds up a hand to stop him, but he insists on checking, leaving her grateful that her mother has moved into the kitchen as well and can be heard ordering Jack about as the tea is made. “You’re going to be black and blue by evening,” he mutters, the irritation clear in his tone though his hands as they ghost carefully over her bare skin are incredibly gentle.

She can see the angry red mark on her hip, cranes her neck as his fingers brush over her shoulder, just managing to see the edge of the marred patch of flesh he is scrutinising. He leans down, bestows a tiny press of his lips there, as though to kiss it better, and Grace feels her heart swell. For all his faults and flaws, he really is a wonderful man and she’s rapidly falling deeper and deeper in love with him.

“I’m okay,” she manages at last, the weight finally clearing off her chest. It aches as she breathes, but it’s not the end of the world and even the flow of air in and out of her lungs is steadying now. It feels like an eternity since Boyd opened the door, but in reality it’s less than five minutes, she realises, glancing up at the clock.

She offers him her hands, the intention clear, but instead he slips his palms around her waist and lifts her cleanly to her feet, gently tugging her into his arms as he does, hugging her close. It’s a wonderful sensation she never tires of, and she automatically tucks herself closer, smiles inside when she feels his lips against her hair.

She stretches up on her tiptoes to kiss him, intending for her lips to leave a light brush against his own but somehow completely forgets her plans in the process. Grace has no idea how it happens, but within seconds his fingers are threading lightly through her hair and his lips are caressing hers with a slow, delicate finesse that doesn’t cease quickly as she expects, but carries on instead. A tiny part of her mind blames the intensity of the last few minutes, coupled with the abrupt end and separation they had earlier. The rest of it is lost in him.

Somehow her arms are around his neck, and his free hand is circling her waist, tugging her closer. It’s not an erotic kiss, but it is slow and sensual. As much to reassure him that she really is okay as for the sheer pleasure of it.

“Ahem,” says an amused voice behind them. They break apart and she moves to turn but Boyd’s grip tightens suddenly, doesn’t let her, fingers digging into her skin, and it’s only then that she remembers that she’s bare beneath her untied robe.

Hands on his chest, she applies the tiniest amount of pressure, letting him know she understands, and then twists just enough in his embrace to see, craning her neck to find Iris smirking at them.

“You two really can’t keep your hands off one another, can you?”

Grace feels a hint of colour rush to her cheeks, looks down and away briefly. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Boyd grin mischievously. “Nope,” he declares, both arms around her waist now as he maintains his hold on her. As if to illustrate his point, he leans down and nuzzles her neck, and though she can’t quite see his face, Grace just knows he’s outright smirking now.

Iris sighs, shakes her head. “Oh to be yo–,” she pauses, looks at them both, then grins wickedly. “ _Younger_ , and in love.”

“Thanks, ma,” says Grace drily. “Thanks a lot!”

“My pleasure.” Wonderfully, superbly innocent. “Shall we have that cup of tea now?”

* * *

Looking at her brother at he sits at the kitchen table, opposite their mother, Grace doesn’t see much of the very nearly seventy year old hard-working man who is a loving father and devoted grandfather. Instead she sees an angry man she barely recognises. One who seems to be struggling to accept that he is in the wrong and to move past the suddenly unexpected situation he has found himself in.

It’s not exactly pleasant for her either, she admits, and she certainly didn’t have anything like this in mind for the introduction of Boyd to the rest of her family that she was slowly beginning to think about setting in motion, but Jack’s reaction is… unexpected.

He won’t look at her, she realises, as she hands out the mugs of tea and moves to stand beside Boyd as her mother sits opposite Jack at the tiny two person table, hands cradled serenely around her mug as she stares thoughtfully at her son.

Conversation has been stilted, and so far going nowhere. Grace can see the impatience rising in the blue eyes that match her own.

“What’s the matter with you, Jack? I didn’t bring you up to behave like this.”

Jack, it seems, at least has the good grace to look guilty and appropriately chastised. “How would you feel,” he mutters, “going to see your sister and having some unknown man answer the door, barely dressed. And then seeing her,” he jerks his head at Grace, “just behind him. Wearing hardly anything either.”

“You’re behaving like a child,” Iris tells him, no sympathy in her voice whatsoever. “And for God’s sake, boy, Grace isn’t a spinster! She’s more than entitled to have some fun, _and_ to choose who she has it with.”

“Mum!” protests Jack, clearly unhappy with the idea.

On her feet again, Iris glares down at him, somehow seems to tower over him. “No,” she snaps. “If you’d been dead or gone for twenty years, would you expect Allison to spend the rest of her life alone?”

It’s a touch of female solidarity, and Grace is infinitely grateful for it.

Grace sees her brother flinch at the thought, and then watches as the reality of their mother’s words sink in. “No,” he finally admits. “But it’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?” Their mother’s tone is dangerously smooth, but Jack doesn’t seem to hear it.

“Because… Grace is… she’s…”

Iris’s eyes narrow. “What? Spit it out, Jack.”

“Grace is… she isn’t… she lives alo –”

“Don’t you dare suggest to me, boy, that your sister shouldn’t be in control of her own life and her own decisions. That she shouldn’t be sleeping with whomever she pleases because she’s not married.”

“I…” Jack flounders, clearly knows he’s been caught and Grace stares at him, disbelieving. Stunned.

Iris is clearly livid, and Grace can’t even begin to remember the last time she saw such true fury in the older woman’s face. She leans across the narrow table and pokes Jack hard in the chest, makes him look up at her to face the full force of her wrath. “How dare you?” she demands. “I thought I cleared all traces of that ridiculous notion and all others like it from you and your brother’s heads when you were growing up.”

“She’s my sister,” he mutters sulkily.

“And she’s my daughter,” barks Iris. “Tell me, what would you do if it was _me_ who had a new partner? Punch him as well?”

Jack pales, and Grace can clearly see the horror in his eyes at the thought of their mother having a gentleman friend. “Mum,” he gasps, “You haven’t… you aren’t…”

“That’s irrelevant. We’re not talking about me.” Iron-willed, Iris won’t be moved away from the subject at hand.

“I wasn’t expecting it,” he mutters at last, quailing under parental pressure.

“What?”

“I wasn’t expecting the door to be answered by a half-naked man I don’t know,” Jack admits. “I came round to return a book, and instead came face to face with _him_.” He jerks his head at Boyd. “And it was obvious that they’d been… well, you know…”

“No I don’t know.” Iris’s tone is flat, her eyes hard as she refuses to ease up on him.

Grace cringes, feels Boyd’s arm around her tighten a little in response. She knows where this is going, and she can feel a prickle of embarrassment quickly rising.

Jack fidgets in the chair as he tries to avoid answering. It’s no good though – for such a small woman, Iris in an immovable force when she wants to be. “He was breathing heavily, his jeans were… tight…”

Caught between mortification and sudden inappropriate enjoyment of the moment, Grace almost wants to laugh at her brother’s expense as he stammers and stutters his way through the complete minefield he’s created for himself, but her residual anger keeps her in check, and she folds her arms across her aching chest, wondering if this is ever going to end.

“His jeans were tight, were they?” asks Iris, unholy amusement in her eyes as she flicks a quick glance at her daughter, despite the stern expression still being directed at her son.

Jack glowers up at her, clearly not appreciating the humiliation she is raining down on him. “He was all sweaty,” Jack mutters sullenly, “and…” He stops, clearly unable to go on.

“For fuck’s sake, man,” growls Boyd, and whether for entertainment, torture, to rescue Jack, or simply to get the agonising moment over and done with, he finishes the sentence. “Spit it out! We were in the middle of screwing.”

“Peter!” Grace can’t help the sharpness with which his name leaves her lips, nor can she help the wince that escapes her at his coarseness, or the flush that rises steadily up her cheeks.

Iris sees, and for a moment Grace thinks she is going to cackle in laughter, but perhaps because of the seriousness of the conversation and the lesson she is trying to teach her son, she holds it in. Grace doesn’t doubt, though, that later on she will find herself on the receiving end of much parental teasing. For years to come, no doubt.

It’s all hastily ignored for now though, as Jack starts to rise from his chair, his face the colour of a thunder cloud. “How dare you sa – ”

“ _Sit back down_!” Grace flinches as much as Jack does at that tone, and suddenly remembers exactly why it was always their mother who was the disciplinarian in the house, rather than their father.

It is Jack, though, who really surprises her. There is real rage in her brother, and she doesn’t understand it. Jack is mild-mannered and kind, has always been the gentle, protective older brother who made sure she was all right. This is entirely unexpected behaviour from him, and she doesn’t know what to think about it.

He seems to deflate under the pressure. Sinking back into his seat he sighs heavily, suddenly looking old and tired. “It wasn’t intentional, I swear. I was just… shocked. Angry. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, but… I was. And that’s all I can say about it. I’m sorry.” He looks down, into his untouched tea, and Grace can see shame burning there. Knows that despite whatever happened earlier to cause such an overreaction, Jack is clearly mortified by his behaviour.

There is nothing to be done to salvage the moment, she knows. Jack needs to go home and calm down. She will have to talk to him later – much later – and only then will they begin to smooth this whole thing over. If she tries now nothing good will come of it. Jack is stubborn, maybe even more so than she is, than Boyd is.

He’s thoroughly riled, and needs time to digest the newest development in her life before she begins to talk to him about it. And, she suspects, he needs a while to get over the shame, if the red tinge along his collar is anything to go by. Jack is protective, yes, but he’s also proud. Introducing him properly to the man in her life will have to wait. And from the looks of things, her mother has realised it too.

Iris looks over at them both. “Why don’t you two go and start getting showered and dressed?” she suggests. “I’ll stay here and talk to Jack.”

“Okay.”

It’s a good idea, if only to give them a few minutes to talk to each other in private, thinks Grace. Clearly Boyd is on the same page, because he rests a hand on the small of her back as she starts to move and he follows. It’s proprietal, she knows. Designed to show Jack exactly who he is and what his presence in her life really means. Normally she’d never allow such behaviour, but in this instance she says nothing. Lets him have his display. She is, after all, very much in love with him. And her brother had better get used to that idea, and soon.

“There’s just one more thing, though.”

Grace turns, looks at her mother. Feels Boyd do exactly the same. Iris gestures towards her son. “About the arrest thing…”

“Oh,” says Boyd, almost carelessly. He eyes Jack, lips pursed. “I’m de-arresting you. You’re free to go.”

“That’s it?” asks Iris, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “ _I’m de-arresting you_.”

“’Fraid so,” replies Boyd. “It’s a bit of a let-down, I know, but that’s the way it goes.”

“Well, who’d have thought it.” The old woman shakes her head, amused.

“Indeed,” agrees Boyd. He looks at Jack. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but next time I will personally be taking you to custody, and shutting the cell door behind you.”

“There won’t _be_ a next time,” Iris growls. “My children don’t get in trouble with the law.” 

“Hm,” says Boyd, putting a hand on Grace’s waist again as they turn to leave the room.

“Grace, Peter…”

They both turn to look at Iris, and too late Grace sees the smirk in her mother’s eyes. “One at a time, please. Showering together is never as efficient as it seems in advance.”

The long, hard look Grace gives in response only meets cackling laughter and dancing eyes. Boyd sniggers beside her as they head for the door, and she pokes him in the ribs. For her trouble she only gets a naughty smirk and a long, meaningful look from hazel eyes filled with mischief.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

* * *

There is silence as they make their way upstairs, though Grace can feel his eyes on her as they ascend. She wonders what he’s thinking, if she should say something. They are still within earshot of the kitchen though, and she can just about hear the beginning of what sounds as though it will be a long and impressive lecture on manners and behaviour, so she refrains.

Instead she heads for the bedroom, isn’t at all surprised when the door closes behind him as he follows her.

“Are all of your brothers so… protective?” he asks, almost immediately.

Grace laughs, both at his question, and his dry tone. “Oh yes,” she replies. “When it involves me, they’re all the same. I’m their baby sister, and they take being older brothers _very_ seriously.”

“I’m doomed!” sighs Boyd, dramatically.

The slight tension that she was afraid would build between them instantly shatters, and Grace begins to laugh, to really laugh, and within seconds he’s collapsing onto the bed beside her, tugging her loosely against his body with one long, possessive arm, and laughing with her.

Head on his chest, she breathes deeply, savouring it all. Moments like this are too few and far between during the week, their relentlessly busy schedule taking over and making incredible demands on their time.

“They’re going to have to learn to accept me,” he eventually tells her as their amusement dies down, eyes intense as he stares at her, into her. “Or at the very least live with me being here – with you.”

“They are?” she asks, smiling up at him.

He nods, very nearly pulling off the illusion of all seriousness, aside from the tiny glimmer in his eyes that gives him away. “Oh yes.” He leans down, nuzzles his nose against hers, brushes his lips between her eyes. “You’re mine, now. All mine, and I’m not letting you go.”

“Yours?” she replies, one eyebrow arches at his possessive tone. “I’m not a possession, Peter.”

Boyd glowers at her. “You know damn well what I mean, Grace. Stop trying to pick a fight over my choice of words. Just for once would you shelve that damn independence of yours and listen when I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”

“Oh, I’m listening,” she grins, fully enjoying the moment when he realises that she’s teasing him.

“You…” words seem to fail him, and her smirk only widens.

“Me..?”

He growls, she keeps grinning, and suddenly everything is very exciting as he employs his full weight and pins her to the bed before launching an attack that leaves her breathless and gasping as his fingers find all of her most ticklish spots and unleash revenge without mercy.

“Stop, stop!” she cries, writhing under his touch, desperate for the torment to end. “Peter,” she gasps frantically and he sniggers at her desperation, but mercifully eases his ministrations.

“Yes?” he whispers, straight into her ear, low and deep and throaty, and dear God, she thinks, if her mother and brother weren’t in the house, that tone alone…

Finally squirming free, she shoves him onto his back and settles herself atop him, grabbing his wrists and leaning all her weight forwards in an effort to hold his arms down, to create a little safety from his treacherously agile fingers.

He likes it, a lot, and the wickedly impish expression on his face as he watches her watching him tells her exactly what’s going through his mind.

Damn.

She wants him, so much. And the look in his eyes…

“I want you,” she whispers, all levity gone from the moment now as she stares at him with nothing but pure need and overwhelming love radiating through her.

“I know,” he murmurs, and she can see everything she is feeling reflected straight back her. “Believe me, I know.”

He leans up, she lets go and then her arms are round his neck, his are wrapping around her back and their lips are dancing together in a sensual expression of love and acceptance, of understanding and tempered, quiet passion.

His voice is roughed and low as they pull back. “Tonight,” he promises, eyes meeting and holding hers, and she nods slowly, understanding all the silent promises he is making, the words he isn’t saying aloud.

They fall back into the mattress quite naturally, the charged, almost desperate moment bleeding away without tension or sadness. Now isn’t the time, or the place. They can afford a few more minutes of peace and quiet though, and by mutual unspoken agreement they take it; he tucks himself snugly against her and she slides her back against his chest and slips happily beneath the arm that curves around her.

“Do I need to arm myself before I meet the rest of the family?”

She smiles, both at his hint of mischief, and at his easy ability to effortlessly change the subject whenever needs be. “Depends. If you meet them all together, then probably. If it’s one or a few at a time, then probably not.”

“Great,” he replies. “I know which option I’m hoping for, then.”

“That wasn’t Jack earlier. I have never, ever seen him like that before. _Ever_! He’s normally as easy-going as Spence is grumpy – something must have really upset him.”

Utterly calm and placid beside her, Boyd simply snuggles a little closer and replies with an easy, “Okay, if you say so.”

“I do,” nods Grace, fervently.

He plays with the hair at the back of her neck, fingers soft and rhythmic there as he amuses himself. “You really don’t have to justify it to me,” he tells her, and the gentle assurance in his voice is very real.

He moves slightly, encourages her to roll onto her back so he can gaze down at her. Fingers light, he traces her cheek, her eyes, lips, nose, and Grace watches in fascination at the way he seems so lost in his thoughts, as he tries to put them all together into words for her. “I get it. If you were my sister… well, I’m sure I’d feel the same.”

“If I were your sister?”

He shrugs. “I’m glad you’re not, believe me. I much prefer you as my…” he pauses, and his confusion is entirely endearing as he searches for the term he wants. “Partner… lover…” He frowns, and Grace gives him a gently questioning look.

“Neither of them seem right to you?” she asks, and isn’t surprised by the shake of his head she receives in response.

“No, they don’t.”

Spontaneously, she stretches, reaching up to kiss him again, softly this time. He raises a querying eyebrow and Grace just smiles, says simply, “Because I adore you.”

Boyd nods, seems to accept her answer without need for further explanation. Continues with, “Don’t get me wrong, if he does it second time I won’t hesitate to nick him again, but I get where he was coming from.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. I don’t agree with his method of handling it, but I understand his reaction. Like I said, if you were my sister, knowing what you’ve been through… Well, I’d probably have done the same thing if I’d opened the door to a half-naked man who had obviously just been screwing – ”

“Peter!” she admonishes again, but knowing it won’t do any good.

He gives her a look, shrugs, and says, “Well, you know…”

“I do.”

“Good. And that’s really all there is to it. I guess it’s a guy thing, and you just have to take my word for it.”

“You’re not annoyed?”

He shakes his head again, still fascinated by his explorations, now seemingly intent on mapping her collar bone. “No. So long as you’re okay.”

“I am,” she confirms.

“Good. I’m still angry that you were hurt, but the rest… is fine.”

“Fine,” she echoes. There’s still something bothering her though. “He punched you… you arrested him…”

“And at the time I thought he was a random bloke who’d just knocked on the door. I didn’t know he was your brother.”

“And that really makes all the difference?”

“It does,” he nods, firmly.

“Okay,” she accepts.

“Okay? That’s it?”

He sounds sceptical, and she shrugs, enjoys the sensation of his fingertips ghosting over her shoulder. “Would you like me to make a big deal out of it?”

“No,” he replies, decisively.

“Well then.”

“And that’s that? Episode closed?”

It’s funny, she thinks, how he still sometimes expects her to make things into a bigger issue than they really are. It’s all the years of working together that are responsible, she knows, and having had to so often fight so hard and argue so much to get him to slow down enough to listen to her thoughts, her ideas. It’s left him expecting her to always be that way, to think that her professional persona bleeds over into the real her. “Yep.”

“Just like that?”

He sounds disbelieving, but that’s fine, too. It won’t do him any harm to be a little wrong-footed – he likes a challenge, likes things to be kept intriguing. And intrigued he is, she thinks, observing the way he is looking down at her.

“Just like that,” she repeats, and watches, sees the way he takes in the hint of mystery in her expression, sees the slow spread of amusement across his face as he realises what she’s doing.

“You…” he murmurs, and it is inflected with a mix of exasperation, curiosity and pleasure but she doesn’t have more than a few seconds to dwell on it as he leans down again, slowly, thoroughly tracing his lips over hers. He takes his time, clearly enjoying himself, and Grace sighs into his mouth as his tongue reaches out, questing forward to meet its mate.

He’s got one hand buried in her hair, the other is exploring the curve of her hip, gliding over the silky smoothness of her robe, and as she curls closer to him, as she wraps her arms around his broad torso, fingers tracing the outline of exposed muscle she finds there, she feels a sense of intense happiness mixed with a quiet, effortless internal peace. It’s overwhelming and humbling and really very perfect.

They break apart to breathe eventually, and she stays utterly still, still caught up in the moment, still heavily intertwined with him.

“All right?” he mumbles into her ear, and there’s a thickness in his voice that suggests to Grace that he’s feeling every bit of the emotion that she is, and is appreciating it just as much.

“Oh yeah,” she sighs, blissfully content, lying as she is in his arms.

The moment shatters as he nods and lifts his head again. “Good. Now for heaven’s sake, go and get in the shower woman, before I give in to temptation, peel that robe off you and get lost in doing the kind of things to you that your brother really wouldn’t appreciate.”

“But what if I’d appreciate it?” she asks, unable to help herself.

“God, you really are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“Might be…”

His attention has finally wandered and she glances down, sees the hint of cleavage that is occupying him so intensely. “You’re such a naughty boy, Peter.”

“I am,” he agrees, very serious as he looks up at her. And then he winks, before adding, “And you love it.”

“Always,” she agrees. There’s no denying the covetous desire lurking in his eyes, and as Grace gets up off the bed she lets her robe fall open again, backs away from him slowly, lets him get a good, long look at what it is he wants. “Last chance,” she whispers provocatively, knowing he won’t act but will only store up his frustration for the evening.

She’s right. For a moment, just a single tiny moment, it looks as though he’s going to leap off the bed and stalk her across the room, and for one brief fleeting second the idea of him catching her and pinning her up against the wall flashes through her mind in a blaze of erotic thought and sensation, but then reality reasserts itself almost immediately. He stays where he is, seemingly determined.

“Be gone with you,” he growls, fire raging in his eyes. “Before your mother comes storming up here to find out what the hell is taking so long.”

Objective accomplished, Grace grins and nods, slipping through the door and heading for the bathroom.

* * *

Descending the stairs far more sedately that she did earlier, Grace hears her mother talking, voice getting louder as she leaves the kitchen and approaches the hallway.

“Go home, Jack. Think about this morning and your actions. And remember this – if I _ever_ hear of you behaving this way again you will have me to deal with. And you can count yourself out of your inheritance if that happens.”

“It’s not going to happen again. I… I didn’t mean it. I just… snapped.”

“Why, son? That’s not your character. It never has been.”

It’s not a moment to interrupt, and Grace pauses where she is, wonders if she can get back upstairs before they reach their destination. She tries, gets around the corner anyway.

“I… I can’t tell you now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just can’t.”

“Jack.” There is a warning in that tone, one they all learned to heed as very small children. Grace doesn’t want to overhear, but she’s stuck. If she takes another step they will know she’s there, for the two floorboards at the very top of the stairs are loose and creak with vigour whenever a foot steps near them. Clenching her teeth at the situation she’s in, she waits, and hopes they head outside and out of earshot.

“I heard from Alistair that John is applying for parole early. Good behaviour and all that.”

“When?” All traces of irritation are gone from Iris’ tone now, replaced instead by a soft, icy urgency as she questions her son.

“Last night, down the pub.”

There is a moment of tense silence, and then, “He won’t get it, surely? He’s got at least another two years…”

“Alistair seemed pretty sure, that he could be out in months if he’s successful.”

“My God.”

“I know.”

There’s silence again, and Grace clutches the banister, knuckles white and cramping with pain as her chest freezes and her legs weaken beneath her, trembling.

“Don’t tell her, mum. Okay? Promise me.”

“I won’t.” It’s sincere, the reply, and as she leans against the wall for support, her mind whirling and racing with the shattering blow of it all, Grace closes her eyes, wishes she was anywhere but at the top of her stairs, overhearing this conversation.

Ignorance is bliss, so they always say.

Her mother’s voice again. “That’s why you came round here, isn’t it?”

Another moment of silence, and she just knows Jack is nodding in admission. “I had to see her. Just… to make sure she was okay. I wasn’t going to tell her, just spend a few minutes with her, reassure myself, you know?”

“I do.” The gravity of her mother’s tone hurts, and not for the first time Grace wonders how much of a burden it is to be the parent of an adult child who went through what she did, powerless to control anything. There is a heavy sigh, one filled with grief and anger and resignation. Then, “Go home, son. Try and relax.”

“Mum – ”

“We can’t do anything about it, only wait and see what happens. Little One has Peter now, and he won’t let any harm come to her.”

“Are you sure?”

Grace can almost see her mother nodding in response. Can hear it in the inflection of her tone. “Oh yes. I’m sure. Go home Jack, we’ll talk about it all later.”

There is nothing for a moment, and then a mutter Grace cannot decipher. The front door opens, and she takes the chance to step as carefully as she can past the creaky spot in the floor and slip silently back into her bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

* * *

Sitting on her bed she closes her eyes, clutches her knees and leans forward, blind panic prickling at the edges of her eyelids.

This cannot be happening, surely?

Not now. Not after all this time.

_There is nothing but blazing agony as the cruel edge of leather bites into her back, over and over again. Face down on the floor, eyes, lips, jaw and cheeks bloodied and swelling, nose broken, vision completely blurred, shoulder dislocated, and barely breathing, she’s clinging to consciousness, yet desperate to lose it._

_John is screaming, but it’s all a confusing mess of profanity and fury and frenzy. There are accusations and threats, and there is rage like she has never known it before. The lashes from his belt are endless, the pain distorting everything else around her as she feels her skin surrender to the attack, ripping apart like tissue._

_His boot lands in her ribs, her stomach, her jaw, and then nothing. She can’t see him, can barely hear him. Can only feel the harsh rasp of carpet fibres against her cheek. Beige carpet, his choice. She’s never liked it._

_There is silence, unending silence. She counts her breaths, the bubbling of blood on her lips loud and distorted inside her head._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

_She can’t move, doesn’t remember how. It doesn’t matter though, she can’t feel her legs, or remember where they are._

_Nine._

_Ten._

_Eleven._

_Twelve._

_Suddenly she’s off her feet and thrust into the wall, almost through it. Everywhere is white; her vision, her hearing, all her senses. It clears enough to hear him roaring, straight into her ear. Words, threats that no woman ever wants to hear from a man._

_“No,” she spits, blood dripping from her bloodied mouth. He’s bigger than her, holds her in place with his body, crushed against the wall. One hand wound in her hair he yanks, exposes the back of her neck, the curve where her shoulder meets her throat. A place he’s kissed her a thousand times, a place he now buries his teeth with savage force._

_She screams, he laughs, and Grace blindly hooks the fingers of her good hand into his groin and pushes back against him with some remaining shred of strength that comes from nowhere. He roars in pain, and for her there is a tiny moment of defiant victory before her head slams into the wall and she feels as though she is airborne. She hits the stairs, the wall, the bannister, the stairs again, and then a wall of darkness._

She’s falling, pitching forward from the edge of the bed, and only a quick twist that tears savagely at her arm saves her from crashing to the floor. The pain grabs her, yanks her out of the terrifying memory, and Grace gasps, clutches the bedframe that is the first thing her gaze focuses on as everything else fades. As the day reasserts itself around her.

It’s been years since she last experienced a flashback like that. Years.

It’s so real, as though she’s living it again.

Her chest is leaden, still at a loss for air, her heart pounding, eyes stinging, head aching savagely.

The door opens and Grace looks up, sees Boyd wrapped in just a towel, his bare skin damp and pink from the heat of the shower. For a moment terror surges, black and all-encompassing, cutting off the universe but then he speaks and the bubble shatters, the fear ebbs; the world rushes back in around her.

“Hey, I thought you’d gone downstairs.”

Grace gets up, legs trembling with the effort, and walks up to him, into him. Places her palms on his shoulders, kisses his chest. Feels, breathes in how alive he is, how real he is.

Burrowing herself into his arms, she stays there, lets him hold her, clings on tightly. He willingly obliges her silent request, keeping her exactly where she is as the seconds tick past, but unsurprisingly he eventually asks a curious, concerned, “Grace?”

“I love you,” she tells him, head still buried in his shoulder. It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it is perhaps one of the most significant. They are not lying entangled in the tranquil aftermath of passion, and they are not about to be separated for several days due to work commitments. Loosening her grip enough to lean back and look up at him, Grace repeats her sentiment.

He looks surprised, but pleased, his face breaking into an expression that isn’t quite a smile, but is something warm and tender and honest.

She tries to smile back at him, but there must be something in her eyes that gives her away because he studies her, his head tilted to one side. Asks a thoughtful, “You okay?”

She is, she realises slowly. For now John is still inside, securely where he belongs, and she is safe. She is safe, and she has Boyd in her life. Boyd who she adores, and who makes her very, very happy.

Boyd who would fight tooth and nail for her if he had to. Boyd who is incredibly protective, and whose mere presence has reassured her so many times before when she’s felt threatened or in endangered.

“I’m fine,” she tells him, steadying herself. “I promise.”

It’s not entirely true, but it’s close enough. For now.

Hands resting on her hips, Boyd nuzzles her hair, and when she masters herself, thrusts away the remnants of that vision from her eyes and looks up at him again, he smiles at her, lets his lips wander languidly over hers. He knows, she realises. He knows something isn’t right, but he’s prepared to let her have her space and tell him in her own time. It’s a precious, precious gift, and she takes it with a deep sense of gratitude for how well he knows her, understands her.

Burying herself back in his arms she stays there, grounding herself firmly back in the here and now, in him. In the reality of the present, not ancient history.

* * *

Waiting for Boyd to finish getting ready, Grace sits at the breakfast table with her mother, both of them with the obligatory gently steaming cups of tea. Just when and how it became such a tradition and necessity, she really can’t remember, and as she idly searches her memory, she realises she has never seen the other woman drink a single cup of coffee, only tea.

“Are you sure you don’t mind if he comes with us?” asks Grace, still a little hesitant regarding the hasty inclusion of her partner into their day out together.

Iris smiles, eyes gentle. “Of course not. I like him.”

Grace nods, breathes a slow sigh of relief. Falls silent and stares into her mug as she feels the weight of a steady, unrelenting gaze watching her. Iris stays silent though, waiting.

Eventually it’s too much, and her thoughts slip into some kind of order. “Mum,” she begins, still not looking up.

“Yes dear?” Patient. As ever.

She can’t do it. Can’t ask about the conversation she inadvertently overheard. Can’t bear to see the look in her mother’s eyes as the panic builds in her own, can’t let the shadow of the past creep in over their day out. Can’t face the well-meaning, careful scrutiny that will come her way as Iris assures and reassures herself that her little girl really is okay. “About this morning,” she covers, forcing herself away from the dangerous topic and train of thought. “Jack…”

“Yes?”

Her mother has never been one to make things easy, reflects Grace ruefully. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I should think so,” is the steady reply. “Once he gets over the shock.”

Grace doesn’t need to look up to know the words are accompanied by a wicked smirk, but she does anyway, and rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Whose side are you on?” she demands, considerably less irritable than her tone indicates.

“Well,” says Iris, her eyes twinkling as she makes a show of deliberating, “Jack is my first born…” Grace scowls, and her mother begins to laugh. “But you’re my only daughter, and my baby.”

There’s a lot of laughter now, from both of them, and it’s wonderful. Something they have always shared.

“Seriously, though,” says Grace, when it dies down. “Will he be okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” Iris assures her. “The shock was… significant… I think. And he’s a man – you know what men are like. They get all het up about the strangest of things. Time, a few beers to mull it all over, and he’ll sort himself out. And if he doesn’t then Allison certainly will.”

“And what about Boyd?”

Iris gazes back across the table. “What about him?”

“Do you think Jack will have an issue with him? After today, I mean?” Her oldest brother can hold a grudge, and Grace is well aware of it. Being wrapped up in an arm lock and arrested… well, she can’t imagine he’s likely to forget that anytime soon.

“I’ll talk to him later.” Iris sips her tea, studies her daughter, and Grace knows she’s being examined for any trace of knowledge that her mother thinks she shouldn’t have regarding that whispered hallway conversation. Evidently she passes the test, because the next thing her mother says is, “Chances are he’ll be round my house this evening, or tomorrow if we’re late home. He always is when he needs to get something off his chest. I’ll talk to him, smooth things over. Tell him Peter really is a good man.”

It’s soothing to hear, but Grace is still a little troubled by it all. The earlier disaster wasn’t anything like the beginnings of the plan to introduce Boyd to her family, and to her brothers in particular, that she had slowly started to form. Calmly and carefully, and definitely one at a time, that was her strategy.

As ever, her mother seems to know a change in topic is necessary. “Was Jack’s timing really that bad?”

Grace winces. Nods. “The absolute worst possible moment,” she admits.

“Men!” mutters Iris, the disgust in her tone clearly audible. Then she smirks, her eyes taking on an unholy gleam yet again. “Though, in my experience, that means there will be real sparks tonight for you, my girl.”

“Mum.” Grace knows she’s whining, but she can’t help it. Her mother is just so –

“What?” The older woman is utterly unrepentant. “You think with four children your father and I didn’t have a _lot_ of practice at being interrupted at precisely the wrong moment?”

“I really don’t want to know,” replies Grace, shivering at the thought. There is just something… wrong… about discussing her parents’ sex life, and with her mother of all people.

“Oh stop cringing, girl. Sex is as natural as the day is long. I happen to know Simon and Sally were at it the night before last.”

Grace sighs. Her protests of, “I really don’t want to know,” fall on deaf ears as Iris keeps talking. “Your nephew was round my house complaining that he came home to find them wrapped around each other on the sofa. Still partly clothed, fortunately, he said, but they wasted no time in disappearing upstairs when they realised he was there.”

Despite herself, Grace laughs. “They probably forgot he’s living with them again,” she muses.

“That’s exactly what I told him, after I made him a nice strong coffee with a good shot of brandy in it. These young men, you know – they just can’t cope with the idea that their parents didn’t just do it the number of times it took to reproduce.”

Thinking of Adam, her now forty-something nephew, recently separated from his volatile wife and temporarily staying with his parents again while looking for somewhere else to go, Grace can’t hold back a laugh. Adam is more uptight about bodily functions than any man she’s ever known, and she can picture, quite clearly, his absolute horror at walking through the door after work and finding his parents in such a compromising situation.

“Poor Adam,” she laughs. Then she sobers slightly. “Is he going for full custody of Maddie?”

Iris nods. “As soon as he can. Michelle has gone completely off the rails, he told me. Drinking all the time, barely holding it together enough to get to work – he doesn’t think it’ll be long before she’s out of a job. She threw his things out into the street; changed the locks while he was at work. He had to call the police to help him go and get the rest of his stuff, to prevent a breach of the peace or something, he said.”

“How’s Maddie doing?” Grace thinks of her sweet little nine year old great niece; a slender girl with dark features, a soft, whispery voice, and a deep love of ballet, who is the absolute light of her father’s life.

“Not too bad, he said. Though he wants to get her out of that situation as soon as possible.”

“I can imagine,” agrees Grace. “I would too.”

“Any parent would,” nods Iris.

How is she doing it, wonders Grace, surreptitiously watching her mother as they continue to speak of the family, catching up on all the recent news. How is Iris hiding the shock of what she’s just learned and carrying on as normal?

Grace heard the tone of her mother’s voice as her brother imparted his news. She noted the horror there, even as she felt the bottom drop out of her own world.

_She doesn’t want me to know. To feel as though anything is wrong._

It’s admirable, she supposes, and it speaks of her mother’s love for her, and her strength of character that Iris can hear such devastating news and simply carry on, but… were it her own choice, thinks Grace, she would have the news out in the open and speak of it.

But would she?

She couldn’t say it, couldn’t bring it up in conversation just a few minutes ago. And she didn’t tell Boyd. She kept it from him, in fact. Upstairs, when he asked, she buried the fear and the horror deep inside her. Told herself that she would speak of it later, when she’d had the chance to process it.

Did she mean it though, she asks herself now. Will she really tell him?

Footsteps on the stairs distract her; rapid and heavy-footed, he clatters down from the upper floor with an enthusiasm that still makes her smile. Appears in the doorway with an energy that makes her envious, and a grin directed solely at her that makes her heart melt just a little bit. In fresh, clean jeans and a sweater, with his hair spiky and still a little damp from the shower he’s an arresting sight and she stares, takes her time taking him in.

The grin on his face widens, and she knows he knows exactly what’s going through her mind. She still wants him, the memory of their interrupted morning tumble choosing precisely that moment to come back and haunt her. Her mother was right, she thinks, offering him the tiniest hint of a smirk as she catches him staring back, his eyes slipping lower than her face; there will most definitely be sparks tonight.

“Ahem!” the interruption is blunt and highly amused, and it shatters the charged moment between them. Grace gives him a guilty twitch of her eyebrow, he lends her a half wink, and they both turn to look at Iris.

“Kindly save the flirting and mentally undressing each other until I leave,” she orders, and Boyd laughs, slips further into the kitchen and moves to stand behind Grace, his palms resting on her shoulders.

His hands are big and strong, and they steady her, thinks Grace. Make her feel secure. Loved.

“I’m just a man,” he tells her mother. “I can’t help myself. Your daughter has bewitched me.”

She laughs, a lot. Just as her mother bursts into peels of merriment, her eyes sparkling with glee.

“Oh, very good,” Iris tells him, before looking at her daughter. “And what’s your excuse?”

“Do I need one?” asks Grace, shrugging. She takes his hand and pulls, tugging him down for a far from innocent kiss.

It’s a declaration, though of what she’s not entirely sure.

To herself, that she trusts him? To her mother, that she loves him? To him, that his sentiments, his feelings are returned, and that she’s not afraid for others to know?

She doesn’t know, but she doesn’t care much either. All of it is true, and she knows it. The season is changing, and they are settling very well into their relationship. Her earlier insecurities are fading and her trust is growing. She doesn’t doubt him – she _knows_ him. And she knows that she knows him. 

She will tell him, when she’s got the measure of it herself. She thinks she’ll tell him. She’s got to tell him, because he’ll find out eventually, and keeping it to herself, especially if it’s true…

How will he react though? Will he scoff, think it’s nothing, or fly into a protective rage?

Does it matter? He will be on her side, and he will still love her. Didn’t he prove that to her the night he first saw her scars and heard her story? Isn’t that what she was always so afraid of? What stopped her from holding out her hand to him a long, long time ago, even though she wanted nothing more than to feel his skin against her own, to confess how she felt about him, how much she wanted him in her life as more than just a friend. To have a chance with him, a real chance.

She will tell him, and he will be on her side, will still love her. And that is all that really matters.

The rest… she will have to learn to handle, and as she does he will help her through it, she’s sure.

“Come on,” says Iris, interrupting her thoughts. “Finish that tea, will you? I’m getting old here, waiting for you two, and the day isn’t getting any younger either.”

“I didn’t even know we were going out,” complains Boyd. “You can’t blame me.”

Iris stares at him, considering. “You can stay behind then.”

The protest is immediate, as it was surely intended to be. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to go.”

Grace looks at her mother, just as Iris looks at her. “That’s not what it sounded like to me,” remarks Iris, and Grace nods in agreement, seeing the narrow-eyed look Boyd directs at her.

“Nor to me either,” she agrees, easily noting the dawning suspicion in Boyd that a considerable amount of female solidarity is suddenly being used against him.

There’s a lot of apprehensive resignation in the way he asks, “It’s going to be a long day, isn’t it?”

Grace smiles sunnily up at him. Iris simply cackles with merciless glee.


End file.
